


Not Entirely Beautiful

by dragonQuill907



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Insecure Sherlock, John also has a scar, John is Psyche, Johnlock - Freeform, Kinda, M/M, Sherlock has scars, Sherlock is Cupid/Eros, Supportive John, asip retelling, but we already knew that, cupid and psyche, kind of, what are tags hah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 18:42:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7652527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonQuill907/pseuds/dragonQuill907
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hearts are not had as a gift, but hearts are earned/<br/>By those that are not entirely beautiful.”<br/>-William Butler Yeats, “A Prayer for my Daughter”</p><p>John Watson is desperate for a flatmate. He finds one in Sherlock Holmes, a mad genius who, for some reason, has not allowed John to see his face.<br/>John doesn't have a problem with it. Not at all. (Yes, he does.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Entirely Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> Loooooosely based on the Greek myth of Cupid/Eros and Psyche  
> In which Sherlock is Cupid/Eros and John is Psyche
> 
> beta'd by the lovely @EmmaLockWrites

“Hearts are not had as a gift, but hearts are earned/

By those that are not entirely beautiful.”

\- William Butler Yeats, “A Prayer for my Daughter”

~*~

John Watson had been a good child. He was responsible and kind and just plain  _ good _ . The little boy knew this because everyone told him so. He’d never fussed when he was young, about school or housework or anything, really. He picked up after his younger sister, helped with her schoolwork, made sure she ate reasonable food and went to bed at a reasonable hour and got to school on time. He washed the dishes every night after supper, even made it once or twice a week. John Watson was a good child who had grown into a good man, and it seemed, too good for his own good.

Harriet – who, as of her eighth birthday, preferred to be called Harry – was not quite the opposite, but close enough. She only did her schoolwork when John made her, stayed up to ungodly hours, and, at the age of seventeen, procured an unhealthy love of alcohol. She started staying out late with her girlfriends, none of them good for her. Harry Watson was a difficult child who had grown into a difficult woman, but her brother was always there to lend a hand.

Now, it wasn’t as if John’s mum and dad hadn’t been home; they had been very involved parents. But they were busy, working long hours to send their kids to the best schools in the area. Their jobs didn’t earn them a lot of money, but what extra money they did have, they saved for their children.

But sometimes all you can do isn’t enough. That’s why, after one and a half years at university, at the age of twenty-two, John decided the only way he could really become a doctor was to join the RAMC. Being the unceasingly  _ good _ person that he is, John enlisted quickly and found himself in Afghanistan, receiving the medical schooling he so desired. When he finished schooling, he was thrust into action, treating dying men and women every day. John loved what he did because he helped saved lives; people trusted  a doctor , and they were right to do so, as there was not a more trustworthy man alive  than their Doctor John Watson .

What job could be better for a kind, responsible, caring man than being a doctor?

John loved what he did, but he wasn’t just a medic. No, he was a soldier, a good soldier, who knew how to hold a gun and how to shoot it without a moment of hesitation. He knew how to kill a man, and he knew how to save one. He was kind, but he could be harsh. He was responsible yet sometimes neglected himself. He was caring, but not about everyone. He was trustworthy, but entirely untrusting. He was a brother and acted like a father. John Watson was full of these internal contradictions; it was a feature of his that warranted respect from most he met.

If you looked into this soldier’s eyes, you saw either a man trying to save your life or end it, and there was nothing in between. 

John was a good soldier, like he was a good man, and he moved through the ranks until he hit Captain. That’s when he’d been shot in the left shoulder, and all he could feel was pain, pain,  _ tearing searing burning _ pain.

And that’s where this story begins, just after John Hamish Watson spent a little over a decade in Her Majesty’s armed forces. He was back in London, nursing a bad shoulder and a limp from a wound that he couldn’t even see, and, like most of us, he had no idea what to do.

~*~

“John? John Watson!”

A portly man walks up to him, and it’s Mike Stamford, one of John’s old university friends. John smiles and offers his hand, and they’re getting coffee only a few minutes later. Stamford’s working at Bart’s hospital now, teaching. They get to talking about London, and John’s army pension, and Harry, who hasn’t talked to John since the one conversation they had when he returned.

“You just had to go, didn’t ya, Johnny?” she’d slurred, hungover, using the nickname she had when they were kids. “You were already the perfect child, you didn’t need to go to war to prove that you were. You didn’t need to make me look like more of a disappointment than I already was. Am.”

“I wanted to be a doctor, Harry, and that was the only way I could.”

“So sorry,  _ Doctor  _ Watson.”

John looks at Stamford, laughs at the idea Harry could help, laughs at the idea he could somehow convince some poor bloke to move in with him.

“Come on, who’d want  _ me _ as a flatmate?” 

“Well, you’re the second person to say that to me today.”

John pauses, bites his lips absently whilst he processes this information. 

“Who was the first?” he asks finally.

Stamford leads him back to Bart’s, into a lab very unlike the one he’d seen in his university days. He tells Stamford so, and he chuckles in return. There is a man there, and he looks up at the pair of them, though John doesn’t notice in time to catch a glimpse of him. He hunches back down over a microscope, his dark hair obscuring the top half of his face.

“Mike,” he says, “can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”

Stamford doesn’t have it on him, but John does, and he  _ is _ inherently good, so he places his phone in the man’s outstretched hand. The man stands, but with his back to John, so his face still remains hidden. John assumes the man must be a weird sort of bloke. Who doesn’t want people to look at their face so badly they turn their back on them? The man talks as he texts, and his voice is a rich baritone that sends shivers down John’s spine.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“…Afghanistan. How did you know-?”

A mousy young woman with brown hair and a cup of coffee appears, and the man turns just so; he can see her face, but the three visitors can’t see his. It must be deliberate, John thinks. He says something about lipstick. The woman – Molly, the man called her – stutters a reply, and John can tell how infatuated she is.  

The dark-haired man says something about violins and flatmates, and John manages to stutter a response to his questions. He feels a sudden empathy for Molly, the mousy girl with coffee. Then the man’s throwing on his coat, complaining about a- a  _ riding crop  _ in the mortuary and popping up the collar to cover the part of his face his hair doesn’t hide. He steps towards the door, opens it, and John calls out.

“Is that it?”

The man freezes halfway out the door. He cocks his head and sighs as if John is the greatest inconvenience on Earth.

“Is that what?” he drawls, sounding utterly bored.

“We’ve only just met, and we’re going to go look at a flat.”

“Problem?”

“We don’t know a  _ thing _ about each other. I don’t know where we’re meeting, either. Quite inconvenient, that. Hell, mate, I don’t even know your name.”

The tall man – because he is  _ very _ tall, with legs that go on for miles, and he really should be awkward, but when he walks, he walks with a certain grace John hasn’t seen before – sighs and proceeds to spell John’s life out for him, dissecting everything without a second thought. He does it with a confidence that surely can’t be  _ real _ , John thinks, as if he knows he’s right and doesn’t mind if you do too.

“I know you’re an army doctor, and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you, but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid.”

John gapes at the man, gripping his cane tightly in his hand. His head is turned, and only a strip of pale skin is showing, under his hair and above his collar.

“It’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” 

“Name and address would be nice. Maybe a time.”

The man sighs again.

“The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street. We’ll meet there tomorrow around, oh, I don’t know. Seven o’clock. Afternoon, Mike.”

John turns and stares at Stamford, his mouth still open.

“He’s actually not as weird as that most of the time. I mean he’s weird all right, but… not like that. You know?”

John just shakes his head.

~*~

John doesn’t know what makes him decide to meet Mr. Holmes at the flat he mentioned, but he does. 

Maybe it’s because John doesn’t yet know what Mr. Holmes looks like or why he had hidden his face so adamantly; maybe it’s because John looked the taller man up online the moment after they’d met, and everything he’d found had given him leagues more questions and no answers (and, unfortunately, no photos of the man’s face, either). Maybe it’s because John is broke and has nowhere else to go unless he stoops to begging his sister for space in her tiny apartment, and he doesn’t want to force her to share quarters with him so soon after his discharge. John isn’t an easy person to be around these days, and he knows this for a fact, so he usually keeps to himself.

Keeping to oneself these days is much more expensive than it used to be. That’s the only reason John’s looking for a flatmate. The good doctor tells himself it isn’t because he’s lonely or because he’s afraid of what he might do to himself when he’s alone.

John is just knocking on the door to 221B Baker Street when Sherlock Holmes steps out of a cab right as a bus slams on the breaks. John whips around to stare at the bus, to make sure no one is hurt or injured or needs a doctor, and consequently fails to catch a glimpse of his potential-flatmate’s elusive face.

“Er, Mr. Holmes,” John says, trying to get the taller man’s attention.

“Call me Sherlock, please,” responds Mr. Holmes, and John nods to hide his frustration. He glances around the block, pleased with the location of his could-be flat.

“Must be expensive,” comments John, his eyes on the streets around him.

“The landlady’s giving me a special deal. I ensured her husband’s execution.”

John’s head snaps back to Sherlock.

“You what?” John asks as the man, who is ducking his head away from John’s gaze.

“Unlikeable man,” Sherlock mutters, and John grins.

A elderly woman opens the door and catches John’s attention. She smiles brightly, gathering Sherlock in her arms without preamble.

“Sherlock, hello!” she cries. The woman grins as she turns to John. “Oh, and who’s this, dear?”

“Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson,” Sherlock introduces briefly. “Shall I lead the way up?”

He climbs the stairs to the flat slowly, struggling with and cursing his cane and his shoulder and his leg (that shouldn’t even hurt). John walks into the flat, notices that Sherlock is standing with his back to him, and nods again, taking in the mess of boxes, files, and glassware strewn around the sitting room. It’s a very nice flat, and it’ll be even nicer when they clear the rubbish out of it, and John tells Mr. Holmes -  _ Sherlock _ \- so without hesitation. John watches as Sherlock’s back stiffens, and he regrets even speaking as the taller man begins frantically clearing piles of paper from the desk to an end table.

“Obviously I can straighten things up a bit,” Sherlock says awkwardly, stabbing a small knife through a stack of letters and into the mantelpiece.

“Is that a skull?” John asks, and he watches with interest as Sherlock turns towards him minutely, granting John a glimpse of a sharp left cheekbone and crystalline blue eye.

“A friend of mine,” Sherlock replies, turning away quickly. “Well, I say ‘friend.’”

Mrs. Hudson appears at the doorway, and John turns towards the sound.

“What do you think of the flat, Doctor Watson?” she asks, smiling sweetly. John smiles back as she continues, “There’s a room upstairs as well, if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.”

John’s smile vanishes, and he glances at Sherlock, ready to catalogue the other man’s response. The thing about John is that he is a comfortably bisexual, red-blooded male. If the man in front of him were homophobic, John simply wouldn’t feel comfortable living so closely with him, much less bringing people  _ home. _ It would be a shame, really, since John is in desperate need of a place to stay.

But Sherlock doesn’t bat an eyelid - or at least, John doesn’t think he does.

“Of course we’ll be needing two,” John says. It’s simply the truth.

“Don’t worry, dear,” Mrs. Hudson replies. “We’ve all sorts ‘round here. Mrs. Turner next door’s got married ones!”

John smiles uncomfortably, relieved that, at least, the landlady seems to be more open-minded than half the people her age. The doctor isn’t excited to relive the eviction notices he had received during his university days after landlords and -ladies realized that the men visiting John’s flat so often were not close friends but, in fact, boyfriends. Of course, that had been before he joined the army, so it hadn’t come up much recently. Still, John figured, he’d have a  _ life _ now. Who knows where it could lead?

“I looked you up last night,” John says against his better judgment. Sherlock does not turn from where he is fiddling with the contents of a bookshelf, so John takes it upon himself to claim the red chair by the fireplace.

“Did you find anything  _ interesting?”  _ the taller man asks as John makes himself as comfortable as he can be (what with his bum leg and all).

“Your blog,” John replied. “It’s the Science of Deduction, yeah?”

“The very same. And… what did you think?”

“I… didn’t think much,” John admits, chewing the inside of his cheek. “It’s unbelieveable, but… I believe it.”

Sherlock smiles, and John only catches it because the exposed skin around his left eye wrinkles. John belatedly notes that the other man (his flatmate?) hasn’t even taken his coat off yet, and he has neglected to smooth down his collar. It makes it difficult but not impossible to see the other man’s face, but his (what  _ must  _ be deliberate) movements and posture keep John from catching a full view; the most he is ever granted is half a profile. He feels lucky to know what color the man’s eyes are, but he realizes that he should know what his flatmate looks like. John opens his mouth to say so when Mrs. Hudson walks back into the sitting room.

Then the topic changes to serial suicides, and a gray-haired man appears at the door demanding - no,  _ requesting _ \- Sherlock’s presence at a  _ crime scene,  _ and John is so confused that he doesn’t know where to look. He hears something about Lauriston Gardens and notes and Anderson - who, to John, sounds like a right wanker - and then Sherlock is gone, out the door without so much as a goodbye.

Mrs. Hudson, the lovely woman she is, offers John tea, talking about Sherlock as if he were her son.

“Always running about, that one. My husband was just like that,” she says. “You’re more the sitting-down type, I can tell.” John winces at this because he knows that he  _ isn’t  _ the sitting-down type, and he never has been, not at all. “You just rest your leg, dear, and I’ll get you your tea.”

Now, John is a good man, but the effects of the war on his body and mind have made him quick-tempered and generally displeased. This is why, when Mrs. Hudson tells him to rest his leg, John shouts,  _ “Damn my leg!” _ and immediately follows his outburst with, “I’m sorry. I am so sorry. It’s just… this bloody thing…”

“Oh, it’s all right, dear. I’ve got a hip, you know.”

John purses his lips (because it’s not the  _ same,  _ he thinks) and nods anyway.

Then Sherlock is back, and John can’t see his face because he’s turned away for some ungodly reason, and he’s asking John about the military, about death. John wastes no time joining his mad flatmate on his way to a crime scene. Sherlock sits to John’s right, and it feels definitely  _ wrong _ somehow. The detective stares out the window the whole cab ride there, never turning to face John fully, even as he lays out John’s life just by examining the details of the doctor’s mobile phone.

Once at the scene, John can’t see anything but the back of Sherlock’s coat as he examines the woman in pink. The doctor, having been kept from admiring the man’s face, admires instead his graceful legs and (unbelievably) perfect arse. John takes a turn examining the body, but he’s nothing compared to Sherlock.

“Fantastic,” John says for the fifth time, and Sherlock asks him if he knows he’s doing it aloud. John blushes as he apologizes, averting his gaze and staring at the floor.

“No, it’s… fine,” Sherlock says, and John looks up in time to catch a glimpse of a very pink mouth before Sherlock turns away.

Sherlock becomes excited about… well, something to do with a case, and leaves the scene before John can even get down the stairs. It is not the first time John has cursed his cane or his leg, and it will not be the last.

The ex-soldier walks towards a main road unhappily, barely keeping himself from glaring at every passerby. They’re all so happy and carefree, and John has no idea where he is or how to get home. He has no idea if he even has a home, having never even discussed rent with Sherlock, much less moved in.

A payphone rings as John passes, and he ignores it. Another phone (this one inside a restaurant) rings as John passes, and he glances it at it questioningly before moving on. A third and final ring grabs the doctor’s attention, and he steps into a phone booth to answer it.

The distinctly male voice on the line commands him to get in the sleek black car that’s just pulled up, and John wants to say  _ no, of course not, never, _ but the voice insists, and John simply cannot protest. He gets in the car and is driven to what looks like an empty warehouse. He is greeted by a man in a suit leaning on an umbrella, and he wants to laugh (because this is ridiculous. Less than one full day with Sherlock Holmes and John - boring, normal, ordinary John - is being kidnapped and interrogated. Ha!).

But John keeps himself from laughing; he doesn’t think it would be a good idea to upset the man in front of him. The imposing man asks him about Sherlock, offers John money to spy on his new flatmate, and tries to seem generally menacing, and John supposes it works (just a bit). Sherlock saves him with a few text messages, and John is driven back to Baker Street ever so kindly by one of the strange man’s employees.

Before he knows it, John is sitting at a table in an Italian restaurant, staring blankly at the menu obscuring his flatmate’s face. Sherlock has already stated that he isn’t ordering anything, so John is a bit confused as to why the detective would need to study the menu so closely, but he doesn’t bother to ask.

John orders easily, happy to have the opportunity to eat, and Sherlock passes the menus to Angelo, who insists on bringing them a candle. The detective turns to face the window, and John is awarded the honor of staring at the severity of the man’s cheekbones, the slope of his nose, and the hint of a soft pink scar curling around his nostril.

John thinks that he will be clever and catch a glimpse of Sherlock’s face in the window behind him, but it’s too difficult to see anything clearly due to the moderate traffic that distorts the other man’s features. He only looks away when Angelo makes good on his promise and sets a candle on their table.

“I’m not his date,” John argues because even though the man he now shares a flat with is quite interesting and more than brilliant, the doctor does not want to get ahead of himself. Sherlock does nothing to dissuade Angelo, so John thinks that the detective must not be that opposed to the idea of perhaps being something more than flatmates. It seems only logical to ask the next question, and, tucking into his meal, John does.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” the doctor asks, hoping the answer is no.

“Excuse me?” Sherlock asks, and John has the distinct impression that  _ that’s _ the most polite the other man will ever be again.

“I met a man today who said he was your archenemy,” John explains, pushing ravioli around his plate with his fork. “It got me to wondering, you know. People don’t have enemies.”

“Sounds dull. What do they have, then?” Sherlock drawls, staring out the window.

“Friends, co-workers, people they know, people they like or don’t like,” John lists, searching the deepest corners of his mind for more options. “Girlfriends, boyfriends.”

“Dull,” Sherlock repeats.

“So you don’t?” John asks. “Have a girlfriend, that is.”

“Not really my area.”

John realizes immediately what this might mean, and he jumps on the thought without much hesitation.

“So do you have a… a boyfriend, then?”

Sherlock’s head snaps to John, but he looks away again before John can see anything he wants to see. The doctor curses himself and his reflexes.

“It’s fine, by the way,” John says because he can’t have Sherlock thinking  _ he’s  _ the homophobe.

“I know it’s fine,” Sherlock snaps, and John raises his eyebrows.

“So you  _ do _ have a boyfriend?” asks John.

“No.”

“All right,” John says, cutting a piece of ravioli in half. “You’re unattached, then. Like me.” John clears his throat, surprised at how tactless he’s being. “Good. Okay.”

John tucks back into his plate of food as Sherlock drums his fingers on the table. It’s silent for a moment before Sherlock speaks again.

“John,” he says quietly, and the doctor looks up, hoping to catch a glimpse of Sherlock’s face (or perhaps just his nose or maybe his mouth again).

“Yeah, Sherlock?”

“Um, I think you should know I consider myself married to my work,” Sherlock states awkwardly. “I’m- I’m flattered by your interest, but there’s… I’m not really looking for any…” The detective trails off, and John remains silent to let him finish his thought. “I’m not really looking for a relationship,” he finally continues, “and if I were, it wouldn’t work.”

John doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything, focusing on his plate of food. This turns out to be a mistake.

“John?” prods Sherlock, and he sounds much too worried for John’s taste.

The doctor looks up just as Sherlock is turning away, and John realizes then that it  _ must _ be deliberate. For some reason, Sherlock does not want John to see his face, and John, needless to say, is intrigued.

“I wasn’t, um. I wasn’t asking,” John replies, licking his bottom lip nervously. “I just wanted you to know that it’s  _ all _ fine. But, um, okay. Noted.”

Sherlock nods definitively. “Thank you. Now, look across the street.”

John smiles bemusedly before asking, “Where?”

“There, stopped at the corner,” Sherlock says. “No one’s getting in, and no one’s getting out. Oh, it’s clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?”

“That’s him?” John asks turning so he can see the taxi as well. “That’s the murderer?”

“Don’t stare.”

“You’re staring!” John protests, turning towards his mad flatmate.

“We can’t both stare,” Sherlock replies, and John thinks he may have a point, so he turns back to his food.

John feels clever again when he realizes that Sherlock  _ has _ to look at him sometime, and not just out of the corner of his eye. So John decides to watch Sherlock until the man turns to face him.

“Don’t stare,” Sherlock repeats softly, and John blushes and turns away.

“Well, it’s just that I haven’t, um… I haven’t seen your face yet,” John says cautiously, “and we’re about to live together. Don’t you think it’s a bit odd?”

Sherlock shrugs, and John chuckles.

“Why is that?” John asks because he cannot help himself. “I’m sure it’s deliberate.”

“What if it is?” Sherlock questions, and John doesn’t have a good answer. “Come on,” he urges next, running out of the restaurant. 

John sighs and follows him out to the street. He then proceeds to do the most ridiculous thing he’s ever done (and he’s invaded Afghanistan!), running after a taxi in the middle of London. At one point, he’s on top of a roof, and he questions his own sanity before jumping onto the next.

The two men make it back to their flat and collapse into childish giggles. Sherlock nods towards the door, and John receives his cane from Angelo. He stares down at it, amazed that he hadn’t needed it at all. Mrs. Hudson chooses that moment to hurry in, wringing her hands and beseeching Sherlock, “What have you done now? Upstairs, dear.”

Sherlock races up the stairs, and John follows slowly behind him. The doctor is surprised to find the DI from earlier lounging in Sherlock’s seat, talking about the pink lady’s case and a- a drugs bust, and John laughs.

“Seriously?” John asks. “This guy? A junkie? I’m sure you could search this flat all day and not find anything you could call  _ recreational _ . This is-”

“John, you probably want to shut up now,” Sherlock interrupts, his whole body stiffening.

John can’t not stop himself from blurting out, “No. _ You?” _

“Shut up,” Sherlock snaps. John ducks his head in shame. John has no right to judge Sherlock on his past actions, as long as he… 

“Are you… clean now?” John asks. He thinks he knows what the answer will be. He knows what he wants the answer to be.

“Yes,” Sherlock replies immediately, glaring at the DI. “I have been for months - nearly a year. I am  _ clean.” _

“Is your flat?” asks the DI.

_ “Yes,” _ Sherlock repeats emphatically. John believes him.

Later that night, John kills a man who threatens Sherlock, and he doesn’t think twice. He wonders whether or not he is still a Good Man, but when Sherlock throws off his bright orange shock blanket and asks him if he’s all right (Sherlock was the one about to die, for God’s sake!), John knows he has made the right choice.

~*~

After a fortnight living with Sherlock Holmes, John has seen just about everything. There have been eyeballs in the microwave, fungus-sporting livers in the vegetable crisper, and fingers in the freezer. Sherlock is going to ruin all of John’s good tupperware.  The tidy Doctor Watson thinks it’s disgusting, but Sherlock has offered to start labeling his experiments. The doctor reluctantly agrees because they’ve been having this argument for the last eight days, and John just wants it to end.

John has seen just about everything except his flatmate’s face. When Sherlock doesn’t have his face buried in the sofa whilst in a sulk, Sherlock plays the violin (which John thinks is just absolutely lovely), but he stares out the window the whole time, never once turning towards John. The doctor has taken to watching Sherlock’s body as it moves. He can admire the graceful way the detective’s muscles shift under expensive clothing even if he cannot admire the owner’s face.

He has pieced together a picture of what Sherlock  _ might _ look like. He can imagine crystalline blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, a very,  _ very _ pink mouth (and a tempting one at that!), and porcelain skin. But he doesn’t know exactly how broad Sherlock’s nose is, how full his lips are, what he looks like when he laughs or grins or sighs. John wants to see Sherlock’s face contort in happiness, mirth, shock, surprise, anger, love, lust-

John curses himself silently. Those last two are definitely  _ not _ things good flatmates should be considering. It’s not entirely his fault, he thinks. He simply can’t help falling in love with Sherlock Holmes.

Of course, he’s not there yet. Not completely, at least. But John Watson has spent many years on this Earth, and he knows how to tell when he’s falling in love. He’s just never experienced it like this before.

He wants to be around Sherlock all the time. He wants to talk to Sherlock all the time. He wants Sherlock to like him. He wants Sherlock to think about him as much as he thinks about Sherlock. Of course, he wants to take Sherlock in his arms and press soft kisses from his forehead to his collarbone, whispering quiet praises as he goes. He wants to wake up with Sherlock’s arms around him, the other man’s head resting peacefully against his chest. He wants to love Sherlock freely and without restraint, and he wants Sherlock to love him back.

John wants to see Sherlock’s face.

More importantly, John wants to know why Sherlock won’t trust him enough to let him.

The doctor sighs as Sherlock burrows deeper into the sofa.

~*~

“Sherlock?” John asks quietly. 

The fire is crackling in the fireplace, and Sherlock has begun to play the violin. John absently recognizes it as one of his favorites. It’s been nearly a month since John has realized that he is definitely in love with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock pauses in the middle of a bar, and the note fades into the silence of the flat.

“Yes, John?” he replies, his back stiffening. John longs to run his hands over the tense muscles. He longs to comfort.

“Why won’t you let me see your face?” he asks instead.

“Why do you want to see it?” Sherlock retorts.

John shrugs even though Sherlock can’t see him and opts for the humorous approach. “I don’t know what you look like. How am I supposed to identify your body if you end up in a morgue somewhere?”

Sherlock’s body relaxes, and he shrugs as well. “I’ll try to make a habit of not dying,” he says, and John has to accept it for now.

~*~

“Sherlock, why won’t you let me see your face?” John asks again.

It has been nearly six weeks since John has realized his love for his flatmate, and two weeks since he began to suspect that Sherlock returns the feelings.

“We’ve talked about this, John,” Sherlock says, sighing as he straightens the newspaper in front of his face.

“I’ve asked you, and you’ve changed topics,” John replies.

“Why does it matter?” asks Sherlock, and John can hear the distress in his voice.

“Because I love you,” John says, “and I want you to trust me.”

The flat is silent, and John thinks that perhaps he’s just ruined the best thing that’s ever happened to him. He opens his mouth to apologize, but Sherlock cuts him off before he can think of what to say.

“I trust you, John,” the detective says quietly. His fingers are nearly white from clutching the newspaper so tightly.

“Do you?” John asks.

Sherlock sighs heavily. John does not know what to say.

“More than anyone,” Sherlock finally answers. John is guilty for a brief moment, but he shakes the feeling off quickly.

“Why won’t you let me see your face?” John asks again. “I’m sure you’re beautiful.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock snaps.

“Do you think how you look changes anything?” John replies softly. “I’ve already fallen in love with you.”

“How can you mean that?” Sherlock demands. “You haven’t even seen me.”

“No, I haven’t,” John agrees. “Shouldn’t that convince you?”

Neither man speaks. John glares holes in the newspaper.

“Do you trust me?” Sherlock asks.

John nods before he remembers he has to vocalize. “Yes,” he says, “of course.”

“Close your eyes,” Sherlock commands. 

John obeys and tries not to jump when uncertain hands rest themselves on his shoulders. He feels hot breath against his mouth, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. Sherlock is  _ so close _ to him; John could open his eyes now and see exactly what the other man had been hiding.

He keeps his eyes closed because Sherlock is trusting him with everything he is, and if John opens his eyes now, he only proves that Sherlock shouldn’t trust him at all. John blindly reaches out, dragging his teeth across his lip as his hand comes to rest on Sherlock’s waist. The detective stays perfectly still, his breath mingling with that of the doctor.

“Sherlock,” John whispers, his lips brushing against the other man’s.

John shivers as Sherlock closes the space between them, slotting their lips together gently. They fall into a gentle rhythm of push and pull, give and take. John realizes that he is the happiest he’s ever been as Sherlock’s hand travels upward to cup his jaw. Sherlock sighs into John’s mouth as the doctor runs a hand through Sherlock’s dark curls. It’s the one part of Sherlock’s countenance that is static; John loves the detective’s curls almost as much as he needs air.

Sherlock pulls away minutes later, and John struggles to keep himself from letting his eyelids flutter open. He wants to see Sherlock’s lips swollen and red from being kissed, wants to see his pupils dilate until there’s only a thin ring of blue surrounding black, wants to admire the way Sherlock’s curls are displaced by John’s steady hands. Instead, the doctor clenches his eyes shut, bent on securing Sherlock’s trust.

Everything is quiet for a moment before Sherlock presses their lips together once more.

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock whispers as he pulls away. John shakes his head because it’s  _ he _ who should be thanking  _ Sherlock _ for placing so much blind faith in him.

“I love you,” John says quietly. He can feel Sherlock freeze over him, long fingers digging into John’s shoulders.

“I love you,” Sherlock finally echoes. 

John smiles and asks, “Will you tell me when I can open my eyes?”

Sherlock chuckles, and John grins widely.

“I’m going to the kitchen,” Sherlock replies. “You can open your eyes once you hear me mucking about in there.”

John frowns. “Don’t put any more fingers in the vegetable crisper,” he orders.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock agrees, one hand lingering on John’s shoulder as he passes.

There is the telltale clink of glass against glass as Sherlock places his mug in the sink. John opens his eyes slowly, still grinning stupidly to himself. The doctor places his fingers on his lips absently, replaying the kiss in his mind and focusing on the memory of the detective’s lips against his own.

Sherlock’s lips are full.

~*~

John nearly startles out of his seat when Sherlock stumbles into the flat clutching the right side of his face and grumbling about hospitals and police cars and  _ bloody Lestrade. _

The doctor scrambles to his feet when he sees the crimson liquid staining Sherlock’s hands.

“Where are you bleeding?” John asks, rushing to Sherlock’s side. Sherlock turns away immediately, so John grabs him by the shoulders and forces his detective to face him.

“John, you don’t-”

_ “Where are you bleeding?” _ John demands, gripping Sherlock’s shoulders tightly. “And where have you been?”

“Case,” Sherlock replies, hiding one half of his face with pale fingers. “Lestrade called whilst you were at the clinic. It was only a four, and I was  _ so bored, _ John.”

“Tell me where you’re bleeding,” John orders, and he has the sinking feeling that he’ll have to see Sherlock’s face in order to patch him up. Even in the three weeks since Sherlock had kissed John, the detective had still not allowed the doctor to see his face. John bites his lip before he asks his next question. “Will you let me help you?”

Sherlock slouches, and he shakes his head madly.

“Sherlock, please, let me help,” John pleads. “I’ll try not to look where I don’t have to, but I need to clean your wound. I have to make sure you’re okay.”

“I can take care of it,” Sherlock protests,  shaking off John’s grip.

“No,” John vetoes immediately. “That’s  _ my _ job, Sherlock.”

“Oh, just because you’re a doctor, you think you know best?” asks Sherlock bitterly. 

The door to the bathroom slams open, and whatever’s in the medicine cabinet rattles. John follows Sherlock dutifully, pausing in the doorway as he sees, for the first time, his flatmate’s face.

Sherlock’s brilliant blue eyes meet John’s in the mirror, and the doctor’s heart sinks as his detective straightens. The look in Sherlock’s eyes is cold and detached as he turns to stare John down.

“Are you happy now?” he asks, his jaw stiff.

“No,” John answers angrily. “You’re still  _ bleeding.  _ Of course I’m not happy. Now sit and tell me what’s wrong.”

Sherlock purses his lips before sitting heavily on the toilet seat. John lets out a relieved sigh as he digs his first aid kit out from under the sink. Without Sherlock’s hands covering his face, John can immediately see the source of the bleeding. There is a gash on Sherlock’s forehead that follows his hairline from the middle of his forehead to the top of his ear. John winces as he assesses the damage. The wound will probably require stitches once John cleans the blood from his detective’s face.

John is acutely aware of the fact that he is finally allowed to  _ look. _ He casts a brief glance at the rest of Sherlock’s face, finding comfort in what he already knows - clear blue eyes, straight nose, full, pink lips. He notices, of course, the pink scars that cover a third of Sherlock’s countenance. There is one John almost recognizes; it starts below his right eye and ends curled around his left nostril. The others are small, red, and angry, scattered across his chin and cheekbone. Sherlock’s right eyelid is marred by a long scar, and, when open, his pale eyes contrast sharply with the intensity of the mark.

“What happened?” John asks, running a hand through Sherlock’s curls.

Sherlock scoffs. “Imaginative question,” he replies.

John shakes his head. “I meant your head, Sherlock,” he says. “As in: what happened to make you bleed?”

“Oh. I was chasing after a suspect,” Sherlock explains. “Lestrade told me not to. I knew you wouldn’t like it.”

“You’re right about that,” John interjects.

“He had a friend who tripped me before I could see him. Hit my head as I fell.”

John purses his lips and lifts Sherlock’s head up by the chin. Sherlock flinches away, and John sighs.

“I need better light to stitch you up, love,” John says, and Sherlock finally seems to relax as he takes in the doctor’s words. John carefully cleans Sherlock’s wound with antiseptic wipes. They turn as red as the blood on Sherlock’s forehead. He goes through three before Sherlock’s skin is clean. “Do you want to go to a hospital?” John asks, eyeing the wound clinically.

“No,” Sherlock says quietly. “I’d rather you do it.”

“It’s going to hurt,” John lets him know, “and I don’t want to hurt you.”

“That’s not a problem,” Sherlock says. “I want you to do it. Give me a few painkillers before you start stitching.”

John nods slowly, threading a needle with the lightest colored stitching he can find. He hands Sherlock two paracetamol tablets, and the other man downs them without anything to drink. John winces along with his detective as his needle pierces Sherlock’s skin for the first time.

“Shouldn’t scar too bad,” John says, desperate for something to say.

Sherlock’s lips quirk. “I have no problem with scarring, John.”

John would shrug if he weren’t being so meticulous in stitching Sherlock’s wound.

“You know what I mean,” he replies. “And, look, Sherlock, you don’t have to tell me, and I won’t ask. All right?”

Sherlock’s eyes flick up to John’s. “Aren’t you curious?” he asks.

John nods. “Yes, of course I am. But if you don’t want me to know, then I won’t ask.”

The taller man closes his eyes and clenches his fists as John continues to thread the needle through his skin. They are both silent for a moment, but John has a question that he can’t  _ not  _ ask.

“So, why didn’t you want me to see you face?” he inquires, tying off the last stitch.

Sherlock scoffs again. “Look at me, John.”

John does, and he sees the most extraordinary man he’s ever known. He wets a rag and starts washing blood out of Sherlock’s dark curls. He loves those curls.

“I still don’t understand,” John admits. He smiles as Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I’m just happy to finally see you.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I’m a vain man,” he says. “I used to be able to use my looks to my advantage, you know.”

“Molly still fancies you,” John says, shrugging. “She still lets you take whatever you want from the morgue, doesn’t she?”

“Less than she used to,” Sherlock replies, crestfallen. “I am unable to charm witnesses or suspects anymore.”

John frowns. “They should be charmed by your intelligence,” he says. “I mean, that’s what got me, isn’t it?”

Sherlock laughs, and John grins as he sees his detective’s whole face light up like a kid on Christmas morning.

“You’re beautiful,” John breathes.

Sherlock’s face falls as he defeatedly shakes his head. John quickly decides that he never wants to see that look on his boyfriend’s face again, so the doctor cups the other man’s jaw and presses their lips together briefly. Sherlock melts into the embrace, gripping John’s wrists tightly.

“I’m not,” Sherlock whispers as they break apart.

“You are,” John insists, “and I love you even more now than I did yesterday. I wouldn’t even care if your skin was blue, you git.”

Sherlock sits back on the toilet seat. John remembers that they are still in the bathroom, and he realizes that it is not the most romantic place to be having this conversation. He chuckles as he then realizes that they are  _ Sherlock and John; _ this conversation would never happen anywhere appropriate. That simply isn’t how they work.

“You’re not disgusted,” Sherlock says, and John isn’t sure if it’s meant to be a question, so he answers anyway.

“I’m not. It’d be a bit hypocritical if I were,” the doctor replies. 

He removes his cardigan and begins unbuttoning his shirt, slowly revealing his own scar. The flesh is taut and pink, a starburst of mangled skin covering his left shoulder. Sherlock simply stares, tracing it lightly with a single finger.

“It’s different,” Sherlock says reverently. “This brought you to me.”

John shakes his head. “I would’ve found you, I think. You and I are meant to be.”

The taller man smiles softly and laces his fingers together with John’s.

“Well, I’d be lost without my blogger,” Sherlock says, and John grins before capturing the other man’s lips with his own.

~*~

Later that night, John takes Sherlock in his arms and kisses every inch of his detective’s face, whispering kind words after each gentle press of his lips to Sherlock’s flesh.

“You’re lovely,” he says, and Sherlock blushes.

“Absolutely stunning,” he praises, and Sherlock giggles when John kisses his nose.

“Gorgeous,” he whispers, and Sherlock pants as John presses sweet kisses to the side of his jaw.

“John,” the detective gasps, his nimble fingers carding through the doctor’s sandy hair, “John, please.”

The blond drops one last gentle kiss on Sherlock’s lips before shifting so his elbows frame the taller man’s face. He stares unabashedly, taking in the beauty that is a thoroughly debauched Sherlock Holmes; dark curls are more unruly than before, a slight blush is creeping its way from a solid chest to an elegant neck, and his eyes are dark with want.

John thinks that he must look the same.

The doctor kisses his way meticulously down Sherlock’s chest, and by the time he reaches Sherlock’s navel, the detective is panting and squirming underneath him. John has never been happier, and he doesn’t think he ever will be.

John is proven wrong when he gets to see the look on Sherlock’s face as he wraps his arms around the detective’s waist and pulls him closer. He is also proven wrong the next morning when he wakes up with a face full of wild dark curls.

John traces the length of Sherlock’s spine with a few calloused fingers, grinning wildly each time the detective shivers. Sherlock rests his face on John’s chest, one hand idly drawing patterns on the muscled flesh next to his head. Neither man talks; they focus on breathing each other in. John has never felt closer to Sherlock than he does in this moment.

They lie in bed for what seems like hours (in reality, it is only twenty-three minutes) before one of them breaks the peaceful silence.

“I was doing an experiment,” Sherlock blurts. “Chemicals reacted poorly. I had miscalculated the amount of sodium I added to the chemical mixture.” John’s hands still, and he squeezes Sherlock reassuringly. “Anyway, what I had created was a sort of hydrochloric acid,” he says. “I didn’t realize it at the time. It didn’t react well with the aluminum oxide.”

“It burned you, didn’t it?” John asks, unable to keep concern from creeping into his voice.

“Yes,” Sherlock replies. “The beaker  _ exploded,  _ for lack of a better term. I managed to block most of the acid and glass with my arms, but I… The vision in my right eye is decidedly less than perfect. I’m actually nearly blind in that one. It’s easier if people stay on my left.”

“At least you remember to wear goggles now,” John comments, nodding.

Sherlock laughs, and John grins.

“Yes,” Sherlock concedes, smiling shyly into John’s bare chest, “at least I remember to wear goggles now.”

John looks down at Sherlock’s body sprawled across his own, his heart swelling with what can only be described as love. 

“I still think you’re beautiful,” he says finally, dropping a kiss on Sherlock’s curls.

The other man props himself up on his elbows and shakes his head in wonder.

“I don’t understand,” he says. “You shouldn’t think so.”

John rolls his eyes. “Did you think I would leave you because you’ve got a few scars?”

Sherlock’s silence worries John more than a  _ ‘yes’  _ ever could have.

The doctor gently cups Sherlock’s jaw, forcing him to pay attention to John’s next words.

“Sherlock Holmes, you are the most extraordinary man I’ve ever met, and how you look isn’t ever going to change that. I love you now, and I’ll love you when we’re old and gray,” John states. He smirks as he adds, “I think what you should be worried about is the bag of bloody fingers in the vegetable crisper because so help me God, Sherlock, that’s not the drawer we agreed to put body parts in.”

“I liked the first part of that more than the last,” Sherlock comments, leaning down to press his lips against John’s. John doesn’t even mind the slightly sour taste of Sherlock’s morning breath.

“So, my radiant, breathtaking,  _ gorgeous _ boyfriend,” John begins after they pull apart, watching contentedly as Sherlock’s face turns pink, “do we have something to do, or are we going to lie in bed all day and enjoy each other’s company?”

Sherlock grins as if he knows a secret John has yet to figure out, and it’s easily the most beautiful thing John has ever seen.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing a Potter!lock fanfic set in the Marauders era! It's gonna be a bit longer than I anticipated since it's currently 11k and they're still in 1st year. I'm gonna try my best to write at least half of it before I start posting, and, taking into consideration that I'm doing NaNoWriMo again this year (with an original novel), that means I might start posting in December? Maybe? Cool?  
> Just a status update, I suppose.
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, leave a comment and a kudos if you liked this fic! Feedback fuels me :)


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